


With Masterful Deceit

by Val_Creative



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Belts, Betrayal, Bickering, Explicit Language, Fingerfucking, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Gags, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Guilt, Humiliation, Humor, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, In Public, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mild Blood, Mutual Pining, Object Insertion, Poisoning, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Restraints, Romance, Roughness, Sexual Content, Spit As Lube, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Geralt faces another ultimatum: hurt Jaskier or else his friend dies.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 196
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	With Masterful Deceit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnOddSock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/gifts).



> _They came after me ♪♪  
>  ♫ ♪ With masterful deceit  
> Broke down my lute  
> And they kicked in my teeth ♪♪ ♫_

*

"Geralt!"

Someone — _or something_ — is watching him.

That much is clear.

Geralt hesitates for a moment while wiping off his dagger. He cannot know if they're hostile or not. Ignoring might be best.

(For now.)

"Geralt!" Jaskier hollers. His brown hair drips wet from the geyser they ran into. "Geralt, where's my wineskin?!"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Because you were _the last one_ to drink before it mysteriously vanished."

Geralt says nothing to the observation, looking down. Jaskier rolls his eyes and throws up his hands aggravated.

"Unbelievable," he mutters, stomping away towards the fields.

*

It's quiet out here. Nothing but wheat and high grass stretching all of the way to Riverdell.

They've come through the Theodula Pass where it cuts deep and winding through the mountains of Amell. On the way, Geralt faced a cluster of overgrown Echinopsae. Huge, howling monstrous plants emerging from the rock and silt. Born of crimes that were never atoned for.

Many have died in the Theodula Pass over the centuries.

Fevers.

Wounds.

Abandoned by loved ones.

Geralt nearly lost the flesh off his bones against mouths of devil's teeth. Massive tendrils covered in a black, burning sap. He ordered Jaskier to hide when the Echinopsae shot their poisoned thorns, killing what attacked with his silver-coated daggers.

With the dawnlight, Geralt can tell he is not far from the city of Riedbrune.

Jaskier returns in defeat, widening apart his legs and saddling himself on the log beside Geralt. He plops into a sit.

"I cannot believe you did this, Geralt. You were been completely irresponsible with my things. That one was a gift given _personally_ —" Jaskier rants, going incredulous, "—from a very wealthy royal trader in Claywich. He _adored_ my songs."

Geralt lifts his dagger, inspecting the silver for any cracks.

"So then you fucked him and his wife," he acknowledges. "And his mistress."

Jaskier's mouth scrunches in contemplation.

"Not all together. Obviously."

A low, dismissive grunt.

Geralt throws away his sap-black, filthy rag, and then he notices Jaskier gawking in awe.

"Was…?" Jaskier asks, narrowing his eyes. Eyes of a clearwater blue so penetrating that Geralt can even feel it. "Was that a smile?"

_Damn him._

Geralt stares directly into Jaskier's amused face. His upper lip sneers.

"Trick of the light."

"Sure it was," Jaskier whispers, leaning in and not fearful of incurring Geralt's wrath at all.

That's what it feels it. Jaskier creeps in a little more and more these days. Penetrating the space between them. Never apologising for it. Geralt finds himself softening to him and accepting despite himself.

Witchers do not go soft. It means _death_.

(The hardest part strains in Geralt's trousers, firm and twitching, at the vivid imaginings of Jaskier's warmth. So many imaginings. Devouring Jaskier's mouth in kisses. Biting and marking Jaskier. Fucking him and into all of his warmth that seems out of Geralt's reach. His dreams have been plagued of a nude Jaskier, flushed pink, grinning and moaning under Geralt's weight, as of late.)

An odour of dirt lingers on Jaskier's tunic. The apple orchard over the hill. Geralt supposes that Jaskier's mouth would taste like the apples. He wants to know. He wants to _know_ so fucking badly, and those gods-damned lips hover out as if doubtful.

Jaskier sighs, looking away. He rakes his fingers into his wet mop of dark brown locks.

"I…"

Geralt swallows down the temptation to grab onto Jaskier's collar, yank him into his lap and _feel_.

Feel every bare inch.

Feel everything he's missing.

He growls in frustration when Jaskier stands, moving off the log and bouncing onto his heels.

"I heard Yennefer of Venderberg is staying in the nearby town."

"Then we're going the opposite way," Geralt declares, sheathing his dagger.

Jaskier's eyebrows furrow.

"You don't want to see her?" he says as if deeply confused.

"No."

"Are you lying?"

Geralt scowls, rising to his feet and walking off. The other man extends a finger to Geralt's back, his mouth falling open but in sudden silence. "You didn't say _no_ that time," Jaskier points out, hurrying up and following behind him.

"Get your lute, Jaskier."

They've had time to figure out each other's cues. This is Geralt's version of _move your fucking ass, Jaskier. Don't argue._

Jaskier frowns, making a face and turning away. "Muh, muhh, look at me—I'm Geralt of Rivia—" He mocks him, pretending to brood and hunch, lightly kicking one of the emptied, dirtied stew-pots. "I'm an emotionally constipated dolt who smells like onions and rotten Echinops guts— _and I don't care that I'm handsome enough to make someone fall in love with me_ —"

_"—OI!"_

Geralt peers over his shoulder.

"There's the little trollop!" Jaskier exclaims brightly, holding up his wineskin and uncapping it. He gulps down its contents.

*

Belhaven doesn't welcome strangers.

Most of the dwellers work in the iron ore mines to provide for Mag Turga. Even the children.

Geralt keeps his cloaked hood up, gazing towards the pale faces unwashed in windows. Dark ore-soot glares on their cheeks.

The roads are too small and cramped for any horse-driven carriages. Networks of alleys lead into each other, confusing any unseasoned traveler happening upon them. Leading them straight into the greedy hands of thieves or murderers or rapers.

He can smell the death. Sickness. Poverty and misery of its own people.

It thrives in the air and off the waters of the Newi river. The other river — Sansretour — lies on the farthest end of Belhaven where they entered. Geralt witnessed a floating corpse already an hour into rotting.

One of the taverns is willing to shelter them. It's built on old mortar bricks. Cramped with tiny, dafty rooms and fireplaces.

Jaskier doesn't complain, humming out a low melody and strumming. He prances around a heavyset woman. She's fair-skinned and fair-haired. Her hands cross over herself shyly when Jaskier croons of her beauty. One of the tavern-wenches.

While his companion appears distracted, Geralt leaves.

*

He's being watched again.

A group of men corner an expressionless Geralt into an alleyway. They're all wearing thick leather belts and woolen caps. Their breeches stained in crimson. "Can I help you gentlemen find your way?" Geralt rasps out, feigning politeness.

 _"Butcher!"_ one of them roars. "You can _suffer_ for what you've done!"

"I know not what I have done against you. But you should know I am very hard to kill."

The leader bares his yellowing teeth fiendishly.

"We don't have to kill the likes of you for suffering, Witcher," he announces. "You brought a friend with you."

Geralt's jaw clenches.

"Leave off," Geralt says this like a warning. "He's just a bard. If your fight is with me… then I accept."

"He's _your_ bard. That makes it different now."

Geralt's heart thuds rapidly in his chest, but his face remains stoic.

He shouldn't have left Jaskier at the tavern. He shouldn't have. There could be more men involved. A nobleman or a king or a mage. Someone with a strong influence and power. It was foolish of him to assume Geralt was the only one being targeted.

"He's not anything to me," Geralt lies.

"Prove it." Several of the men grin and nudge each other as if pleased. "Do so by hurting him," the leader orders. "Rape him."

Geralt's orange-gold eyes blink, widening.

"Do as we say or your bard dies."

The leader holds up an empty vial, tossing it to Geralt. Something's not right. Geralt can sense it while touching the vial. He knows there's yarrow, velvetleaf and jasmine. Evening primrose. But that's not it. This is, no, no — this is magic.

 _Chaos_ — tainted, wreathed with human malice — _Chaos_ buried deep within the enchanted glass. Like a living shadow.

"You will beat him until he's bloody and then rape him. You will not tell him why you are doing this. You will not tell him about us." Geralt's fingers close around the vial, hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "This poison was slipped into his wineskin. You have four hours to rape him or he dies screaming, Witcher. We've already tested it. A girl choked on her own blood in the end."

Anger.

It's _anger_ welling in Geralt. Filling him like the black, burning sap. His head spins.

"Or I can kill you now and save his life." Geralt's voice rumbles like a horizon's thunder. "Wouldn't that be quicker?"

"It would if the poison's antidote was here. You didn't think we would let you find a way out of this, did you?" The leader, with his yellowing grin, doesn't tear his eyes away. "You have two choices. Not choosing also means a choice. So you _will_ choose."

Hurt Jaskier or let him die.

_Pick the lesser evil._

Geralt holds back a scream of anguish. No — this cannot be happening.

"We'll find you when it's done." The men disappear into the alleyways as if never there. "Everyone lives, Witcher. Feel blessed."

*

He's the White Wolf.

A protector.

Geralt returns onto the cobblestone road, horrified and unable to steady his mind. In four hours, Jaskier will die.

(Why this? Why not seek their revenge on Geralt himself?)

(Why… _why_ must it be this?)

He pockets the vial left with him. Geralt could track them. Find where they're keeping what Geralt needs. Take it. Kill them all. Smash everything. Burn all remnants of this nightmare so he can walk away and slip the antidote into Jaskier's morning beer.

"Where have you been?!"

Jaskier huffs into view, shouldering aside his lute's strap. An accusatory look.

"Fine decision leaving me on my own, Geralt!" he yells. "While you're gallivanting around doing Heaven knows what, trying to get us thrown out of this city before supper!" Geralt says nothing to this, looking away. "Ah, well, I found Yennefer—"

_"—I don't care—"_

"She, um, she said the same thing about you," Jaskier admits, wincing and eating a piece of what's in his hand. " _And_ she said quite a few colourful and violent phrases that I dare not repeat, lest you slay the messenger." He joins Geralt's other side. "But never mind that. I took some of her blood sausages and we can—" Jaskier's blue eyes squint. "—Geralt, what's the matter?"

Jaskier glances over the other man, becoming concerned.

"Talk to me," he murmurs. "You're shaking."

"Get back to the tavern, Jaskier."

"You're my best friend. You shouldn't be keeping secrets."

Geralt shuts his eyes, his teeth gritting. The dark Chaos intensifies around Jaskier every second. It's coming from _inside_ him. He drank it. Geralt questioned if the outlaws were truthful at first but there's no mistaking it. Jaskier has less than four hours.

"I'm not your friend…"

"Of course not," Jaskier mutters sarcastically. "And you're not standing here whiter than a Nightwraith."

_"Fuck off."_

A too-soft command. Geralt cannot think to keep him here or to leave him. There's no good option. Only a lesser evil.

Jaskier tuts.

"Oh dear… if only it were that simple…"

"It is that simple, you fucking idiot," Geralt hisses, nearly spitting out his venomous words. The anger returns full force. He crowds into Jaskier's face turning from melancholy into genuine astonishment. "Get the _FUCK_ back inside! _NOW!"_

Jaskier stumbles backwards, thumping his back against a wall.

Disappointment looms into his expression.

"You're such an arse, you know that?" he whispers to Geralt, frowning and straightening up. Jaskier marches off down the road. He's a pale blue vision through the smoking mist and sunlight, and Geralt cannot dare to risk him wandering far.

"That's not the way to the tavern!" Geralt shouts, half-following him.

"I'm not going to the tavern!"

"What the hell are you doing, Jaskier?"

"Finding _SOMEONE ELSE_ with a _HORSE!!"_ Jaskier bellows, whirling around and looking more furious than Geralt remembers seeing him. In all of the time they've been together. "You clearly don't want me or _NEED ME_ in your life!!" _  
_

Jaskier barks out a humorless laugh, dragging his hands over his nose and mouth and tilting his head forward.

Geralt can only take it.

He deserves this. He knows he does.

"And another thing, Geralt! I've only ever been trying to help you! Yes, I helped myself when it suited me—I do not deny this—but I also _CARE_ about you! Truly I do! Even if you are the _LEAST_ agreeable person I've ever _KNOWN IN MY LIFE!!"_

Several of the townsfolk wander by them, halting.

Geralt frowns, mumbling out and grabbing for Jaskier's forearm only to have his fingers shoved away.

Jaskier uses both hands when Geralt grabs him again, crying out wildly and thrusting himself away from Geralt's broad chest. That's how he is. Jaskier has no self-preservation around Geralt. He doesn't fear him. Jaskier doesn't think about how weak he is compared to a Witcher.

He punches Jaskier.

Right on the mouth and with enough force to stagger him. No broken bones.

Dark red blood drips between Jaskier's lips. Before he can get a word in, Geralt punches him _again_. Jaskier's head snaps backwards, and the other man pulls him in by the front of his tunic, landing another hit to the center of Jaskier's forehead.

The wheezing, helpless moan twists Geralt's stomach. This feels like condemnation.

(He has lost.)

One more punch, and Jaskier falls onto the ground in an unconscious heap. His bloody-wet mouth slacks open.

Geralt waits, glaring at the curious bystanders, observing his surroundings before he notices one of the men. They want a performance. Satisfaction in knowing that Geralt's relationship with Jaskier will be forever torn apart. As torn as Jaskier himself would be.

Bile floods into Geralt's mouth. He hacks.

With one hand digging into Jaskier's pale blue, silken coat, Geralt hauls him over the edge of an old wooden bench. He strips off a belt. Jaskier will thrash. He will wake from pain, howling raggedly and attempting to wrestle away Geralt if Jaskier can.

Geralt restrains Jaskier's wrists behind him, tightening the leather.

He stuffs one of Jaskier's handkerchiefs deep into his mouth. A bitten-off tongue will take longer to heal. Jaskier won't be able to sing. Not that Geralt believes he will ever be blessed with a sweet, laughing note again… once this is done…

_Three hours._

Geralt inhales, adjusting Jaskier's hips propped against the bench and unlacing his trousers.

He pushes down the silken and blue material. Jaskier's thighs expose — a creamy, rosy hue. They're more muscular than Geralt expected to witness. His skin must be hot and impossibly soft, but Geralt cannot feel him. Not with the boiled leather gloves encasing his hands.

It's better this way.

He lifts up the hem of Jaskier's lacy, white-linen tunic, exposing him further. Geralt spits onto his fingers, rubbing them along the line of Jaskier's buttocks. Spreading him apart. He's lovely in every possible way a man could be. Geralt had no doubt of this.

(It should have been _different_. All of this.)

Geralt's thumb locates his rim, pressing down, trying to ease into him. Jaskier doesn't move. Whether or not his unconscious state allows this, Geralt slowly sinks himself into Jaskier's arse. Even with the barrier of dark, rough leather, Geralt senses all of the heat.

A vein throbs in Geralt's neck as he grits his teeth, snarling in abhorrence and prodding his forefinger to Jaskier's rim.

Jaskier stirs awake with Geralt's fingers inside him rotating and stretching him. He doesn't do anything at first. No struggle. Geralt isn't sure Jaskier knows what's going on right now. The muscles around Geralt's first two fingers clench up tightly.

That's when a wail escapes Jaskier's gagged mouth, low and long. The noise cuts fiercely into Geralt.

Geralt's other hand situates between Jaskier's shoulder-blades, holding him in place.

He fingerfucks Jaskier roughly, feeling nothing but disgust for himself.

_Guilt._

That's what it feels like… guilt _and shame.  
_

Jaskier wails out more loudly. His head shakes back and forth as if pleading.

A cart-man passes them fearfully, scurrying away.

Jaskier's bound-wrists squirm. He throws his weight back, over and over, still trapped by the weight of Geralt's arm.

Geralt presses down harder, listening to Jaskier groan feebly, drooling wet around his balled-up handkerchief. His entire body shudders. Geralt unsheathes his dagger, staring down balefully to the flash of silver. He cannot falter. He cannot be gentle.

Indecision cannot be sowed when the cost is so high.

He flips the dagger round, its polished blade grasping loosely in Geralt's hand. The dagger's hilt made of cold, dark steel. Geralt spits on the rounded pommel. It won't be enough, he reckons. Jaskier is too tense now, panting, quivering in dread.

Geralt sends up a prayer, lowering the dagger and impaling him.

Jaskier encounters the thickest, widest part of the dagger's pommel at first, causing him to writhe like a man burning alive. He slams his own face down against the wooden bench. The agony in Jaskier's muffled scream echoes like a dying heartbeat inside Geralt.

His swollen-pink hole widens open, throbbing.

He fucks Jaskier with the hilt, pushing in, pulling, pushing in, in, until neither of them can take it.

Off in the distance, Geralt hears a boom of laughter.

Time fades. He just wants this over for Jaskier. For himself.

Geralt tugs out the hilt, watching the abused, reddish-pink hole flutter, gaping slightly. Blood smears on Jaskier's rim.

Jaskier remains where he is, slumped over, as Geralt releases him.

Geralt prepared for screams and a kind of feral rebellion out of Jaskier — not the quiet and heart-wrenching sobs.

Not for _defeat_.

He steps away, leaving Jaskier there and glowering murderously at the lingering townsfolk who now flee. A girl perhaps no more than ten and three stares at him curiously from a wagon. The mark of Aretuza bright on her neck. One of the servants.

"Find Yennefer of Vengerberg and bring her here," Geralt mutters. "Be quick about it."

She nods, hopping down onto the cobblestones.

He tears off his leather-gloves, casting them aside as if they too were poisoned.

_Two hours._

*

Suffering.

A new vial cradles against Geralt's bare fingers.

He's done with it.

*

The tavern-keeper informs him that no bards have returned. That means Geralt should get himself out Belhaven.

_Sooner rather than later, Butcher._

One of his younger sons pulls a irritated Geralt aside, claiming that he saw a mage. Black of hair. Her irises as luminous as amethysts. She was leading Geralt's bard out of the road, and away towards an uninhabited manor near the vineyards.

Geralt thanks him with coin. After all, that's why the lad mentioned her.

*

There's nothing left of the vineyard but twisted, dead roots.

Similar to his insides.

Geralt can still taste vomit in his mouth as he approaches the manor's front door. Nothing comes up but hot strings of spittle.

His boots track in muddy, rotten leaves.

If Yennefer cast a spell, it doesn't seem to work on him. Protection or otherwise.

Geralt discovers the inside of a noblewoman's manor to be as decayed as the high pillars and balustrades. Up until he reaches one of chambers. Immaculate and gleaming marble floors. Gilded candelabras. Fresh oak logs crackle in the hearth.

Yennefer seats herself in plush, decadent velvet she conjured. Her bejeweled hand grasps a wet cloth, patting Jaskier's brow. She's talking softly, soothingly to the other man, wringing out the cloth into a porcelain water basin.

Geralt's throat clenches.

Jaskier lies sideways on a grand and feather-soft bed, turned into Yennefer. He's visibly breathing.

That's all Geralt needs.

"Haven't you done enough to him…?"

Yennefer's voice drifts into Geralt's ears. She's monotonous and doesn't spare him a glance, but he can feel her rage surfacing.

Geralt walks into the bedchamber, never taking his eyes off Jaskier. That's when Yennefer whirls on her feet in deep indigo-blue silk, blocking a solemn-faced Geralt towering over her. "Take another step," she hisses, "and I'll rip out whatever it is you call a _heart_."

"Let me speak to him," Geralt says gruffly. His milk-white hair flecked with an outlaw's blood.

"Fuck off."

"I won't say it again, Yennefer. Stand aside."

"And if I don't, Witcher? What will you do about it?" Yennefer asks this like a challenge. She folds her arms, staring up into Geralt's eyes glaring down on her. Her own purple eyes blaze in hatred, but her words quake. "Rape me too?"

_"ENOOUGHHH!"_

Both of them go still.

Jaskier heaves himself upright, scowling. His arms tremble.

Geralt finally looks him over, regretting his decision. Bruises darken with colour to Jaskier's pale, handsome face. Over most of Jaskier's left temple, his nose and jaw. He can't get the high, breathy screams out of his mind. Jaskier's sobbing.

The vial of antidote weighs heavy in Geralt's pocket.

"Yen…" Jaskier croaks out, sounding exhausted. "Thank you for everything… ss'alright…"

Her lips flatten together.

Geralt understands. Yennefer is compassionate and good, and full of fire. She will not let others suffer. He stands aside out of courtesy as Yennefer storms into the hallway, throwing out her elbow and crashing it into the middle of Geralt's abdomen.

Once she's gone, Jaskier's adrenaline fades. Pain tightens his features.

He grimaces, hunching and sucking air loudly through his teeth.

"We were being followed," Geralt tells him, restraining himself from getting any closer to Jaskier. "They were going to kill you if I hadn't done what I did. You've been poisoned since morning." He holds out the vial. "If you don't take this, you'll die."

Jaskier gazes up, brows furrowed.

_"Oh…"_

He reaches for the liquid-clear vial, taking it from Geralt's hand. Their fingers brush. Geralt feels that warmth he has craved, imagined so vividly, and lurches away. "I made a choice… I chose to hurt you," Geralt deadpans. "I acted as a monster."

The corner of Jaskier's mouth twitches up.

"You're not…" he murmurs, staring down thoughtfully at the item. "You're not a monster, Geralt."

"How can you say that after someone you considered… _a friend…_ hurt you?"

"Easy, I just did," Jaskier quips, snorting out in amusement and meeting the intensity of Geralt's amber-orange eyes. There's still pain. He's unsteady and breathing hard, paling by the moment. "I… I probably shouldn't… but I do forgive you…"

Geralt shakes his head, frowning. "I cannot forgive myself."

"You're such an arse… you know that…?"

Jaskier's close-lipped smile relaxes. Geralt never thought he would see _a smile_ again. Never hear a kind word from him.

Dark blood trickles over Jaskier's lips.

He rubs under his nostrils and discovering more on his right hand.

" _Whh?"_

"No!" Geralt roars, barreling into him and catching a half-fainting Jaskier. "No! _No!"_

Chaos blackens, engulfing like a tempest. Smelling of death.

He cushions Jaskier's head with his arm, lifting him. Geralt pries open the vial.

"Jaskier, damn you," he mutters, tipping the antidote out and down Jaskier's throat, covering his palm over Jaskier's lips to get him to swallow. "Jaskier!" Geralt shouts desperately when the other man doesn't respond. "Answer me! Jaskier!"

_"Geralt…"_

Clearwater blue eyes flutter open.

 _"Your breath… smells worse than Roach…_ " Jaskier mumbles, wrinkling his nose.

What sounds like a throaty laugh escapes Geralt's lips.

He cradles the unbruised side of Jaskier's face, staring down and bent low. Fingers nest into milky-white strands.

Jaskier uses that hand for leverage, pulling Geralt's head down and wrapping an arm round him. Pulling them tightly together. Their mouths brush. Hovering like phantoms before Jaskier's lips nudge harder against Geralt's mouth.

Geralt's heart races.

"Jaskier…"

A low, content hum.

"Mm'been wanting to do that…" Jaskier whispers, smiling against Geralt's cheek prickling silvery-white hairs. "For a while… a long while… mm, stop thinking so loudly, Geralt," he complains. "I know you're brooding again."

"You're an idiot," Geralt says, meaning none of it.

No apples.

He savours Jaskier's warm mouth nonetheless.

*


End file.
